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VOICES FROM ERIN 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

There are always voices calling to the exile over-seas. 
Cries from Erin'* s mother-heart are on the wings of 
every wind. 
And they fill the mind with pictures^ and the heart 
with memories 
Of the days of love and youth that, long ago, he 
left behind. 

There are always voices calling — and the clamorous 
demands 
Of the present, its ambitions and its triumphs and 
its fears' 
Can not lessen for an instant, tho* he strays in distant 
lands 
All the sweetness to the exile of the dreams of other 
years ! 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

AND OTHER POEMS 

BY 

DENIS A. McCarthy 

Author of '■'■A Round of Rimes ^'' 

NEW EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED 



Work without thought of fortune or of glory, 

Fly to the moon in fancy if you wish, 

Write not a word that comes not from your heart, 

And still be modest. Tell yourself, " My child, 

Content yourself with fruits and flowers — nay, leaves - 

If you have gathered them in your own garden." 

Rostand 



BOSTON 

LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY 

1910 






Copyright, igo6, igio 
By Denis A. McCarthy 

Published, October, 1910 



yrfnteru 
8. J. Paekhill & Co., Boston, U. 8. A. 



C!.A:?73S76 



DEDICATED 

TO ALL WHO IN THEIR LOVE FOR THE NEW LAND 
HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN THE OLD 



ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 

The thanks of the author are due to the "Ave Maria" 
and other publications, among them the " New England 
Magazine/' the *« New York Sun," the "Rosary," the 
"Catholic World, "and the "Christian Endeavor World," 
for permission to reproduce in this volume poems con- 
tributed originally to their pages. Graciously assenting to 
the use herein of verses from the "Ave Maria," the 
editor. Rev. Daniel E, Hudson, C. S. C, writes : — 

"A thousand times welcome. ... It was an honor 
duly appreciated to publish poetry like — * Ballinderry,' 
for instance." 



CONTENTS 



PAGE 

The Day of the Gael i 

Eve of All Souls r 

The Wind from Slieve-na-mon 7 

'T IS Spring Again lo 

My Own Dear Land j2 

The Green o' the Spring 14 

St. Patrick's Day Memories 16 

If Love Only Wait jg 

The Song of the Bugle jp 

At Night , _ 21 

My Native River 22 

To Mary, Mother of Sorrows 24 

The Day when the Green Flag Flies 26 

To Mary, Our Mediatrix 28 

In Carrick Town 29 

Prayers and Flowers 31 

Christmas in Ireland Long Ago 32 

The Niobe of Nations 34 

Day and Night 3^ 

The Shamrock 33 

Maytime in Ireland 40 

Old Cork Beside the Lee 42 

A Moonlit Night 44 

[ixl 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Robert Emmet 45 

The Dream of You 46 

Oh, Why Are the Bugles Playing? 47 

Ireland in the Spring 49 

Father O'Growney 51 

Robin with the Rosy Breast 53 

The Hills o' Carrickbeg 55 

In the Fields o' Ballinderry 57 

O Little Lamp 59 

Songs at Christmas 60 

The Road to Bethlehem 63 

Under the Rose 65 

The Irish on Parade 67 

The Roses from the Garden . , 70 

On That Day 71 

The Way OF THE World 72 

In Bygone Days — And Now 74 

The Fellow who Fights Alone 76 

The Victor's Wreath 78 

In Fair Bohemia it is Always Spring 79 

When the World was Youthful Yet 81 

The Memory of May 84 

A Song of Duty 87 

Love's Content 89 

A Winsome Wife and Baby 90 

When Falls the Curtain 91 

The Real Presence 92 

The Shining Suir 93 

The Dearest Thing in Erin 95 

fxl 



V 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

To One who "Never Doubted Clouds would 

Break" 96 

Carrick Castle 97 

The Grass-Grown Graves loi 

Another Blessed Christmas Day 102 

The Graduate 104 

Lincoln 108 

In the Nuns' Garden no 

^ John Boyle O'Rellly in 

The Minor Poet 115 

The Old Story 116 

The Call OF THE Spring 117 

No Red Flag IN America 119 

■ Her Courage 121 

The Lost Ones OF Erin 123 

The Poet's Faith 125 

Christmas Legends 127 

The Flag Defenders 129 

A Bit 0' the Brogue 131 



XI 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Day of the Gael 

/^NCE more we gather in the sacred name 
^-^ Of that far country where our race arose, 
Once more we come to feed the sacred flame 

Of Irish love in every heart that glows; 
Once more we meet within whose veins there flows 

The blood of those who made her ancient glory, 
To celebrate the day the wide world knows — 

The one bright day in all old Ireland's story. 

This day is dear to us. This day our race 

Renews its youth the whole broad earth around; 
This day our love o'erleaps all sundering space, 

And homeward hies beyond all hindering bound; 
This day, where'er an Irishman is found, 

(And whither can you go and fail to find him?) 
His faithful spirit haunts the holy ground. 

The consecrated sod long left behind him. 

[I] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

And even those whose eyes have never seen 

The shine and shadow on their fathers' hills, 
Have ne'er been gladdened by the living green 

Reflected in a thousand Irish rills, 
To-day their hearts a tender feeling fills, 

Upon their ears to-day a voice is falling, 
A voice that touches them, a voice that thrills — 

The voice of Erin to her children calling. 

The "sea-divided Gaels" are one to-day — 

From North to South, from farthest East to West, 
The spreading oceans can not stop nor stay 

The spark that speeds from Irish breast to breast; 
We 're brothers all at motherland's behest. 

Heart cleaves to heart with tenderest devotion. 
And dark dissension passes like a jest 

In all the glow of this dear day's emotion! 

The winds of fate have blown us far and wide, 

Of cruel laws we 've known the bitter ban, 
But all in vain oppression's hand has tried 

To bend us to a proud imperial plan. 
We are no remnant of a conquered clan — 

Eight hundred years of tyranny and terror 
Defiant leave us as when first began 

Their long, long reign of ignorance and error! 

[2] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

We 've known defeat, we 've known the anguish keen 

Of those who see their country's glory fled, — 
The famine days — the living spectres lean — 

The little children hungering for bread. 
And yet the Irish nation is not dead! 

In spite of sword and suffering and sorrow, 
When all seems lost, again she lifts her head, 

And turns expectant toward some bright to- 
morrow! 

On England's realm the day is never done, 

She well may boast her far-flung battle-line, 
Her morning drum-beat following the sun. 

She rules alike the palm-tree and the pine. 
But, Erin dear, a wider sway is thine! 

A truer state of empire thou maintainest! 
Thy right to homage is a right divine. 

Because, dear land, by love alone thou reignest! 

The empire won by steel and held by force 

Must some time fail, must some time fall to nought, 
The onward moving years' resistless course 

Full many a dynasty to dust has brought. 
Belshazzar's kingdom cunningly was wrought, 

And yet there came a day of dire disaster. 
There came a message that with meaning fraught 

Foretold the triumph of another master! 

[3] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Thus power has passed, and thus will pass again. 

God lives and reigns whate'er the fool may say. 
God is not mocked. He keeps His tryst with men, 

He bides His time until the appointed day. 
And then He moves. And then He sweeps away 

The fabrics fondly made to last forever. 
And then a ruin where the lizards play 

Is all that marks the place of proud endeavor! 

This, this is Erin's comfort in her grief 

And this her consolation in her care: 
She holds unshaken still her old belief 

That God's high judgments are not false but fair; 
When other peoples perish in despair, 

Or bend the knee before unholy altars, 
Whatever cross poor Ireland's shoulders bear. 

Her Christian courage never faints nor falters! 

And so this day 's a day of faith and hope! 

Whate'er misfortunes through the year may fall, 
To-day in darkness we refuse to grope. 

To-day our fingers fling aside the pall. 
To-day we answer to the clarion call 

Of those at home — true-hearted sons that love her, 
To-day we pledge our fealty to all 

Who strive to place her own free flag above her! 

[4] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Eve of All Souls 

/^OMETH again the feast of those who have jour- 
neyed before us, 
Those who have passed beyond, and left us behind 
heavy-hearted, 
Over the world arise the prayers of the living in 
chorus. 
Asking the mercy of God on the souls of the faith- 
ful departed. 

Cometh again the day of those who have loved us, 
and cherished, 
Those on whose strength we have leaned, whose 
spirit has helped and befriended, 
Those in whose love we have lived as the plant by 
the sunlight is nourished. 
Those who have cheered us and smiled till the 
grief that assailed us was ended. 

Cometh again the time in these opening hours of 
November, 
Time when the bonds of the spirit are closelier 
drawn in devotion, 

[5] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Time when the heart of the Church is especially 
moved to remember, 
Time when her orisons rise with a noise like the 
moan of the ocean. 

Never before I knew the meaning and depth of the 
morrow, 
Never before its truth had power my mind to 
awaken. 
Never before 'till now — when sore is my heart with 
the sorrow, 
Sore with the sorrow that came when the friend of 
my bosom was taken. 

Cometh the feast of the dead. O friend, whose 
departure bereft me! 
I have no fear you are gone on a voyage alone and 
uncharted. 
Great is my grief, yet I know you are safe, since the 
moment you left me. 
Safe in the keeping of God in the port of the faith- 
ful departed! 



[6] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Wind from Slieve-na-mon 

nPHE gentle wind from Slieve-na-mon, how softly 
would it sing 

Across the verdant valleys at the opening of the 
spring ! 

How tenderly 't would whisper of the summer com- 
ing on, 

The sighing wind, the singing wind that came from 
Slieve-na-mon! 



The gracious wind from Slieve-na-mon, how kindly 

would it croon 
Across the silent meadows in the summer-stricken 

noon. 
What respite and relief it brought to every weary 

one, 
The kindly, cooling, blessed wind that blew from 

Slieve-na-mon! 

[7] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

The waiKng wind from Slieve-na-mon, I seem to hear 

it still 
As long ago I heard it from that fairy-haunted hill, 
As long ago I heard it when the harvest moon was 

wan, 
And I feared the banshee's wailing in the wind from 

Slieve-na-mon! 



The roaring wind from Slieve-na-mon, how wildly 

would it blow. 
When winter cast upon its wings the burden of the 

snow! 
It shook the house with fury and it shook our hearts 

anon, 
The wild and wintry wind that came from stormy 

SUeve-na-mon! 



The magic wind from Slieve-na-mon — sometimes it 
was a blast 

Of faint enchanted bugles blown from Ireland's glori- 
ous past. 

How many a dream it brought of days when Ireland's 
banner shone, 

And Irish cheers were mingled with the wind from 
Slieve-na-mon! 

[8] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

The lonesome wind from Slieve-na-mon — Ah, 

weary heart of mine, 
It blows across a grave to-day as sacred as a shrine. 
It blows across my mother's grave wherein when life 

is gone 
God grant that I may rest beneath the wind from 

Slieve-na-mon! 



[9] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



'T IS Spring Again 

»nP IS Spring again and the woods are wet 

■*• With the gracious gift of the April rain, 
The sign of approaching summer is set 

In the tender green of the plain, 
The robin rests in his flight and shakes 

A clinging drop from his shining wing, 
And over the woodland silence breaks 

The first sweet song of the spring! 

'T is spring again and the grasses hark 

To the magic message the winds convey. 
The flowers push through the damp and the dark 

To star the meadows of May; 
The rivers long in the winter's trance 

Now over the rocks their waters fling. 
Or softly steal where the sunbeams glance 

Through blossoms and buds of spring. 

'T is spring again and the vagrant heart 

Of the poet pent in the city's walls 
Is flying far from the crowd apart 

Where the voice of the young year calls. 

[10] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

For tired is he of struggle and strife, 
Of thoughts that trouble, of cares that cling, 

And dreams of a sweeter, simpler life 
Awake at the touch of the spring! 



[II] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



My Own Dear Land 

TVyTY own dear land, there 's no other like you, 
^^■^ none! 

Or east or west no other land so fair beneath the sun; 
However beautiful they be, however high they stand. 
They can not rival Rosaleen,^ my own dear land! 

My own dear land, there is music in your name. 

There 's magic in the memory of your olden, golden 
fame. 

There 's glory in the story of the gleaming battle- 
brand 

Of those who died for Rosaleen, my own dear land! 

My own dear land, it is years since I have seen 
The mist upon your mountains and the sunny vales 

between, 
'T is years since I have watched the day die out along 

the strand. 
The shining shore of Rosaleen, my own dear land! 

^ One of the old, poetic names for Ireland was, as is well 
known, Roisin Dubh or Dark Rosaleen. 
[12] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

My own dear land, I have dreamed of you for years, 
I Ve wept for you with longing and I 've longed for 

you with tears. 
But miles of billows racing on across the sounding 

sand 
Have kept me far from Rosaleen, my own dear land! 

My own dear land, I am wishful to be gone, 

To see again the sunlight on the slope of Slieve-na- 

mon. 
To meet again the people of the friendly heart and 

hand 
Who live and love with Rosaleen, my own dear land! 



[13] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Green o' the Spring 

Cure, afther all the winther, 

An' afther all the snow, 
'T is fine to see the sunshine, 

'T is fine to feel its glow; 
'T is fine to see the buds break 

On boughs that bare have been — 
But best of all to Irish eyes 

'T is grand to see the green! 

Sure, afther all the winther, 

An' afther all the snow, 
'T is fine to hear the brooks sing 

As on their way they go; 
'T is fine to hear at mornin' 

The voice of robineen. 
But best of all to Irish eyes 

'T is grand to see the green! 

Sure, here in grim New England 
The spring is always slow. 

An' every bit o' green grass 
Is kilt wid frost and snow; 

[14] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Ah, many a heart is weary 

The winther days, I ween 
But oh, the joy when springtime comes 

An' brings the blessed green! 



[IS] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



St. Patrick's Day Memories 

TLTERE in the strangers' city 

The winds blow bitter and keen, 
But over the sea in Ireland now 

I know that the fields are green; 
I know that the fields are green, and the snow 

From the hills has melted away, 
And the blackbird sings, an' the shamrock springs, 

On dear St. Patrick's Day! 

I know that the bells are ringing 

From many a belfry quaint, 
In many a chapel the sagart tells 

The glory of Ireland's saint; 
From many a cabin lowly and poor, 

From many a mansion gay, 
The strains arise to the hst'ning skies 

Of sweet "St. Patrick's Day." 

I know that the boys are gathered 

Outside on the village green. 
Where many a feat of stalwart strength 

Enlivens the sun-lit scene; 
[i6] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

And who would be blaming an Irish youth 

For letting his glances stray- 
To the cailins dressed in their Sunday best 

On dear St. Patrick's Day! 

Here in the strangers' city 

Are fortune and fame galore, 
The poor man's son may win if he will 

A measure of golden store; 
But ever when springtime comes again 

I wish I were far away 
Where the Suir ^ flows and the shamrock grows, 

On dear St. Patrick's Day! 

^ Pronounced Shure. 



[17] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



If Love Only Wait 

A H me, but the day is so long! 
"^^ And the toil is so hard, and the brain 
So weary of weighing the right and the wrong, 

So tired of the stress and the strain! 
What dream of delight can endure 

The noise and the dust of the street? — 
Yet if Love only wait at the end of the day 

The toil and the trouble are sweet! 

The heart would be roaming afar. 

These sunshiny days, to the green 
Delights of the grove where the singing birds are, 

And the flash of the river is seen; 
But here are a desk and a chair. 

And a task for a poet unmeet — 
Yet if Love only wait at the end of the day 

The toil and the trouble are sweet! 



[i8] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Song of the Bugle 

'nPHE bugle sang in the night, and rang, 

It startled the sleepers all. 
"Come forth," it said, ''from berth and bed, 

The foemen storm the wall! 
Come forth! Come forth! For out of the north 

They pour like a river of men — 
Up slug! Up sot! Or else God wot, 

Ye never may wake again!" 

The bugle sang in the night, and rang; 

The cresset flared in the gloom; 
What hurrying then of half-clad men. 

Of lordling, yeoman, groom! 
What furious clang as the war-bell rang, 

And the warrior weapons clashed. 
As forth to the fight in the dead of the night 

The soldiers of Ireland dashed! 

The bugle sang in the night, and rang, 

It startled the silent street — 
"Come, burghers brave, from your beds, and save 

Your town from the foeman's feet! 

[19] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

See knight and squire with spirits afire, 
They rush to the leaguered walls — 

Nay, hold not back, when your foes attack, 
And the honor of Ireland calls!" 

The bugle sang as the weapons rang, 

As the enemy charged and slew. 
Through storm and stress of the battle's press 

Its song rose steady and true. 
New strength it lent to hearts forespent, 

New hope when hope was gone — 
Oh, ever the brave command it gave, 

"Fight on! Fight on! Fight on!" 

In dust and blood the garrison stood. 

The fight was over and past. 
With many a blow they had chased the foe 

From their ancient walls at last. 
The day-dawn glowed in the east, and showed 

Like a banner of vict'ry red — 
But the bugle rang no more, nor sang, 

For the trumpeter lad lay dead! 



[20] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



At Night 

/^FTEN at night my little daughter stirs 
^^ And cries, perhaps at some rude dream of ill, 
But when she feels her father's hand on hers 
She sinks again to slumber sweet and still. 

Often at night I, too, from dreaming start. 
Shaken by fears, alas, that are not dreams. 

But when Thou lay'st Thy hand upon my heart, 
O Christ, the Comforter, how sweet it seems! 



[21] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



My Native River 

V\7HEN I am sick of Fortune's quest 

And tired of life's endeavor, 
I hope I may return and rest 

Beside my native river — 
Beside that softly-flowing stream 

Whereon the sunbeams quiver, 
Where breezes play, the livelong day, 

Beside my native river. 

The city of the stranger here, 

Oh, I can love it never. 
For sweeter still and far more dear 

I hold my native river. 
My sweetest dreams are still of home. 

And nothing can dissever 
My heart from those, remembrance knows 

Beside my native river! 

I know a spot where willows grow, 

And leaves of aspen shiver. 
Where, in the days of long ago, 

I sat beside the river; 

[22] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

A pledge of love was giv'n me there 
Ah, God be with the giver 

Who lies to-day, far, far away 
By that beloved river! 

I should be happy here, they say. 

With friends that love me ever. 
But older friends are far away 

Beside my native river; 
The strangers' land is rich and fair, 

But may my soul deliver 
Her latest sigh to God on high 

Beside my native river! 



[23] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



To Mary, Mother of Sorrows 

IVyTARY, O Mother of Sorrows! Whenever I turn 
^^^ to thee, 

I think of another mother of sorrows across the sea, 
I think of another, sitting far over the distant main, 
Her bosom burdened with sorrow and pierced with 
the sword of pain! 

Mary, O Mother of Grief! When I gaze on thy pic- 
tured face, 

Rises another picture that nothing can ever erase, 

Ireland troubled and tried, her spirit tormented and 
torn — 

Surely, ye twain are alike in the sorrows that each 
has borne! 

Mary, O Mother of Sorrows! Beautiful still in thy 

woe. 
Ever they merge — thy face and the other face that 

I know. 
They are so like each other, ah, well I can understand 
The cause of the love they give thee, the sons of that 

dear old land! 

[24] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Mary, O Mother of Sorrows! Thy sorrow with joy 

was crowned — 
Surely a solace will also for Ireland's sorrow be found. 
Surely her faith and her love and her patience 

through all the past 
Will win her the crown of joy from the hands of thy 

Son at last! 



[25] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Day when the Green Flag Flies 

A FTER the dreary winter weather, 

After the cold and the silence, too, 
Spring and St. Patrick's Day together 
Come with a message of hope anew. 
Green grass growing in sheltered places 

Shows its color to weary eyes — 
How can we wonder that all the races 

Welcome the day w^hen the green flag flies? 

Wheresoever their sires have sailed from, 

Wheresoe'er they have bowxd and knelt, 
Wheresoever themselves have hailed from. 

All are one wdth the kindly Kelt; 
All are one on this day delightful. 

Under the clear blue springtime skies, 
Irish all by a claim that's rightful. 

Hailing the day when the green flag flies! 

Herald of hope and of joys that follow, 
Ireland's day in the springtime comes — 

Seems it not that the summer swallow 
Answers the call of the Irish drums? 

[26] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Seems it not that the seeds awaking 
Up through the snowdrifts struggle to rise, 

Hearing the noise that the fifes are making — 
Patrick's Day when the green flag flies! 

After your dreary winter 's ended, — 

Olden land o'er the waters blue! — 
Shall we not hope for a springtime splendid, 

Hope for a springtime, even for you? 
Heart and hand shall we cease to strengthen? 

Valor and virtue, cease to prize? — 
Ah, my land, how the sad years lengthen. 

Waiting that day when the green flag flies! 



[27] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



To Mary, Our Mediatrix 

'npHY Son, O Mary, is the Sun in Heaven — 

Can human eyes withstand His radiance 
bright? 
But thou, O Mary, as the moon art given 
To cheer our souls with thy reflected Hght! 

Thy Son, O Mary, is the Prince of Splendor — 
How shall we dare to stand before His face? 

But thou, O Mary, art His Mother tender: 
Gain thou for us His mercy and His grace! 

Thy Son, O Mary, slain for our transgression — 
How can we ask for aught who used Him thus? 

But thou, whose sinlessness exceeds expression, — 
Take thou our prayers, and offer them for us! 



[28] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



In Carrick Town 

QN Christmas Day in Carrick town 

Ere yet the dawn illumes the East, 
Before the altar bending down 

Behold the people and the priest; 
What though the way be long and cold, 

And snow lie deep upon the sod. 
They gather as their sires of old 
On Christmas morn to worship God. 
Ah, thus it is on Christmas Day 
In Carrick town so far away! 

In Carrick town on Christmas Day 

(Ah me, the simple faith of them!) 
They build a lowly hut, and lay 

Therein the Babe of Bethlehem; 
And all day long from lane and street 

Come rich and poor and old and young 
To see the Crib, and hear the sweet 

''Venite Adoremus" sung. 
Yea, so it is on Christmas Day. 
In Carrick town so far away! 

[29] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

On Christmas Day in Carrick town 

The holly gleams above the shelf — 
The hean aHighe ^ has on a gown 

In which she hardly knows herself; 
No costly viands there are spread, 

No blushing wine its glow imparts, 
But humble fare with love instead, 

And kindly words and friendly hearts! 
Ah, thus it is on Christmas Day 
In Carrick town so far away! 

In Carrick town on Christmas Day — 

Ah, would that I were there again. 
Though many a friend has passed av^^ay. 

And boys that once I knew are men; 
Though I have slipped from, many a mind, 

And some have e'en forgot my name, 
I think perhaps that I should find 

Some heart among them still the same! — 
Some boy with whom I used to play 
In Carrick town on Christmas Day! 

* Woman of the house. Pronounced Vanathee approx- 
imately. 



[30] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Prayers and Flowers 

'TpHE flowers that in youth I brought 
■^ To deck thy shrine, O Virgin dear! 
Are turned to dust, are fall'n to nought, 
Are fragrance fled, this many a year. 

Not so do youthful prayers depart, — 
The sweet ''Hail Marys" murmured low, 

Retain their influence o'er my heart 
To-day as twenty years ago. 



[31] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



Christmas in Ireland Long Ago 

A T Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago, 
"^^ The blazing log upon the hearth gave out a 

cheery glow, 
And lit the kindly faces that I used to love and know, 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 

At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago. 
The holly on the dresser crowned the dishes in a row, 
The Christmas candle beaming threw its light across 

the snow. 
At Christmas, Christm.as, in Ireland long ago! 

At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago. 
Without the wind might bluster and without the wind 

might blow, 
Within was peace among us and the kind word to 

and fro. 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 

At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago, 

I mind the merry music of the fiddle and the bow, 

[32] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

I mind the song we used to sing, together, soft and 

low. 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 

At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago, 

I mind a hand that led me through the darkness and 

the snow, 
To see Our Saviour lying in a manger rude and low, 
At Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 

Ah, Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago ! — 
Your memories are dearer still the older that I grow, 
And harder 't is to keep them back — the tears so 

fain to flow 
For Christmas, Christmas, in Ireland long ago! 



[33] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Niobe of Nations 

/^H, thou land of graves and grieving! 
^^ Oh, thou land of tears and sighs! 
Beautiful beyond believing 

Is the sunshine of thy skies! 
Exquisite beyond expression, 

Jewel-like thy vales are set. 
Oh, thou land of pride and passion! 

Land of sadness and regret! 

Never land had such adorning 

As the verdure of thy hills, 
Never did the light of morning 

Shine upon such laughing rills. 
Nature gave thee in the making 

Every gift she could bestow. 
Yet thy heart is always breaking, 

Oh, thou weary land of woe! 

Gazing on thy sun-lit valleys, 
Strange it is to deem that thou 

Still must drain the bitter chalice, 
Wear the thorns upon thy brow! 

[34] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

That, with bruised feet and bleeding, 

Still thy fate it is to be 
On the painful pathway leading 

To a constant Calvary! 

Oft in bygone boyhood musing 

Have I lain beside thy streams, 
Glorious hopes for thee suffusing 

All the spirit of my dreams, 
Till I almost heard the rattle 

Of avenging spear and shield. 
And the dust of freedom's battle 

Blotted out the smihng field. 

Splendid dreams like this have often 

Stirred and cheered thy sons of song, 
But they can not soothe or soften 

Wounds that fester century-long. 
They may flash across our sorrow 

Like a momentary gleam — 
Sterner souls thy sons must borrow: 

They must do as well as dream! 

Soldier-spirits hast thou given 
Nations all the wide world o'er, 

Men whose valor might have driven 
Kings and tyrants from thy shore. 

[35] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Foreign fields have known the daring 
Of their cheering, charging line, 

But their swords, oh, mother Erin, 
Flash for every cause but thine! 

Oh, thou land so blest by beauty! 

Oh, thou land so curst by care! 
Here we pledge our love and duty, 

We the shamrock badge who wear: 
Though no banners high above thee, 

Flaunt thy glory to the skies, 
In thy lowliness we love thee, 

Oh, thou land of tears and sighs! 



[36] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Day and Night 

A LL day I seek the mean reward 
That falls to earthly strife; 
All day the thought of Thee, O Lord, 
Is crowded out of deed and word. 
Is crowded out of life. 

But when I shake my spirit free 
From earthly chains at night, 
The vaulted dusk is filled with Thee, 
And every star becomes to me 
A holy altar-light! 



[37] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Shamrock 

PATRICK, Apostle of Ireland, preaching the 

"*" Gospel of God, 

Showed to the people a shamrock plucked at his feet 

from the sod. 
''Here is a symbol," he said, ''and a sign of the faith 

I preach! 
Here is a symbol," he said, "and a sign of the truth 

I teach! 

*'God is not many but One. One God, One only, 

is He, 
God is not many but One, though the Persons in God 

are three. 
E'en as the shamrock I pluck for you " — holding it 

forth to them — 
" Still is but one, although triple its leaves upon stalk 

and stem." 

Flashed o'er the minds of the people the truth that 

was erewhile dim. 
Chieftain and bard and druid, all flocked to the feet 

of him, 

[38] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Passed from the faiths that had fettered them under 

the pagan rod, 
Giving their hearts and their souls and their wills to 

the One True God! 

Patrick, Apostle of Ireland, preached to the people, 

and made 
Ireland a nation whose sanctity never shall fail or 

fade. 
Centuries-old is the story — yet Irish women and 

men 
Love as the badge of their faith the shamrock ever 

since then! 



[39] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



Maytime in Ireland 

\X7HEN first the springtime, blown from south- 
^ ^ ern spaces, 

With timorous step invades the city street, 
And brightens e'en the gray, prosaic places 

Where toilers hurry and where traders meet, 
Ah, then I weary of my sad sojourning, 

My years and years of wandering far away, 
And homeward like a bird my heart 's returning 

To be in Ireland in the month of May! 

All times and seasons in the land of Erin 

Are blest with beauty's gift of grace I ween, 
Each month that passes well may claim a share in 

The bloom and brightness of that island green. 
But which one brings to meadow, mount and mire- 
land 

The many charms of Maytime' s rich array? — 
Ah, well I know of all the months in Ireland 

There 's none so bright or beautiful as May! 

[40] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

For then the hawthorn whitens all the hedges, 

And sweetens all the vagrant winds that blow, 
And then you hear along the forest edges 

The murmur of the myriad streams that flow. 
And then you seem to catch from ruins haunted 

The magic melodies the fairies play, 
Ah, then you dwell within a land enchanted 

Who dwell in Ireland in the month of May! 

Full many a time in this the strangers' city, 

I Ve marked the yearly coming of the spring. 
And from the depths of some profound self-pity 

The tears have flowed at memory's poignant sting. 
And o'er my heart has rolled a tide of sadness 

For boyhood hopes and boyhood's distant day, 
Rememb'ring all the glory and the gladness 

Of youth and Ireland in the month of May! 



[41] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



Old Cork Beside the Lee 

CTATELY cities rise in splendor 
O'er the land wherein I dwell, 
And they waken feelings tender 

In the hearts that love them well — 
San Francisco's golden gateway, 

Stately Boston, rich New York — 
But I vow I 'd leave them straightway 

For a glimpse of dear old Cork! 
Yes, their glories I 'd abandon. 
Once again the soil to stand on. 
From which rise the walls of Shandon, 

Far across the spreading sea, 
Once again to see the city 
Where the boys are brave and witty, 
And the girls are sweet and pretty. 

In old Cork beside the Lee! 

Stately cities rise in splendor 
O'er the world from pole to pole. 

But I never will surrender 
That old city of my soul; 

She is neither Rome nor Venice, 
Neither Boston nor New York, 
[42] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

But where'er my tongue or pen is 
I will hymn the praise of Cork! 

Yes, wherever I may wander, 

Still my heart will ever ponder 

On that old town over yonder. 
Far across the spreading sea, 

On that famous Irish city, 

Where the boys are brave and witty, 

And the girls are sweet and pretty, 
In old Cork beside the Lee ! 

Should again our land in splendor 

From her lowly state arise, 
Flinging forth — may God defend her! — 

Her green banner to the skies. 
Many exiles would be thronging 

Back from Boston and New York, 
Just to satisfy their longing 

For a glimpse of dear old Cork ! 
Ah, there would be no delaying 
Those whose hearts for years were praying 
On the Mardyke to go stra3dng 

As in days of youth and glee. 
In the charming Irish city. 
Where the boys are brave and witty. 
And the girls are sweet and pretty, 

In old Cork beside the Lee! 

[43] 



TOICES FROM ERIN 



A Moonlit Night 

'T'HE night is sanctified with holy seeming, 
All nature joins to worship the Divine, 
Like newly-lighted altar-candles gleaming 
The stars begin to shine; 

Like incense is the perfume of the valleys, 
The winds like voices sing along the coast. 

While high above the ocean's brimming chalice 
The moon hangs like a Host. 



[44] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Robert Emmet 

(On Sept. 20, 1S03, Robert Emmet was executed.) 

TN Dublin city, one September day, — 

■*■ Ah me, how fast a hundred years may run! — 
A tragic deed in Thomas street was done, 

A deed whose memory hath not passed away; 

For there begirt by troopers in array, 
Upon a ghastly scaffold in the sun, 
Young Emmet, Ireland's best-beloved one, 

Went forth, the forfeit of his Ufe to pay. 

Dead, aye, he 's dead. A century of years 
Have strewn their blossoms on his grave since then, 
Have made the grasses green above his head. 
And yet, not dead! Let us put by our fears! 
Young Robert Emmet can not die, while men 
Have hearts to feel, or women tears to shed! 



[45] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Dream of You 

"r\ REAMS I have had of glory and of splendor, 
"^^^ Rising triumphant over all my fears; 
Dreams I have had pathetically tender, 

Filling my eyes, I know not why, with tears. 
One with the poets all from ages olden. 

Visions have haunted me my whole life through. 
Yet, among all the dreams my heart has holden. 

Sweetest and best I hold the dream of you. 

Dreams of delight, of splendor and of glory. 

Over my soul may still assert their sway, 
Dreams too divinely sweet for song or story 

Still be my happiness from day to day. 
Yet though I lived until the land eternal 

Broke like a dream upon my wond'ring view. 
Never again I 'd know the joy supernal 

Now I possess in this sweet dream of you. 



[46] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Oh, Why Are the Bugles Playing? 

/^H, why are the bugles playing? 

^^ And the drums — why do they beat? 

And why are the pennants swaying 

High over the crowded street? 
What pageant is it appearing 

Like verdant ribbon unrolled? 
And why are the people cheering 

A banner of green and gold? 

The drums so loudly beating, 

The bugles that gayly blow, 
The banners that wave a greeting 

High over the crowd below; 
The stalwart ranks parading. 

The cheers that deafen the skies 
For a flag of green unfading 

That over the column flies — 

All these are the Gael's expression 

Of love for a land afar, 
All these are his soul's confession 

Of the sweetest dreams that are; 

[47] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

The livelong year he holds it 
Deep-hid in his heart away, 

But wide to the world unfolds it 
In honor of Patrick's Day! 

This day wherever he wanders, 

Whatever his name or place. 
With faithful spirit he ponders 

The home of his ancient race; 
In new lands over the ocean 

To-day he remembers the old 
And follows with deep devotion 

A banner of green and gold! 



[48] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Ireland in the Spring 

/^H, far away in Ireland now 
^^ The soft spring breezes blow, 
From dewy-spangled bough to bough 

The birds fly to and fro. 
With chirp and trill the air they fill, — 

Ah me, how sweet they sing ! — 
The world is glad and music-mad 

In Ireland in the spring! 

Oh, far away in Ireland there 

Are laughing streams that flow 
Through verdant valleys where the fair, 

Sweet-scented hawthorns grow: 
And every breeze that stirs in these 

Is sure a shower to fling 
Of blossoms white as snow at night — 

In Ireland in the spring! 

Oh, far away in Ireland rise 
The distant mountain peaks, 

And many a raptured eye descries 
The Gal tees and the Reeks: 

[49] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

What varied hues of misty blues 

On slope and summit cling, 
What shine and shade in glen and glade 

In Ireland in the spring ! 

Oh, far away in Ireland, I 

Am fain to be to-day, 
Beneath the tender Irish sky 

Where once I used to stray. 
The livelong year I 'm happy here 

Until the robins sing; 
Ah, then I sigh, for wings to fly 

To Ireland in the spring ! 



[50] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Father O'Growney * 

"D Y the wash of the far Pacific, 

Alone in his grave he Hes, 
Afar from the gleam of his native stream 

And the smile of his native skies; 
The turf of his tomb may blaze and bloom 

With the splendid flowers of the West, 
But 't is all unmeet for his last retreat — 

He should He in old Erin's breast! 

Oh, his was the tenderest spirit 

That ever from Ireland sprung! 
Can we think unmoved of the way he proved 

His love for the Gaelic tongue? 
Can we think unstirred of the deed and word 

Of the delicate form and frail. 
Who strove to save from Oblivion's grave 

The language of Innisfail? 

^ Since this poem was written the remains of the illustrious 
priest who did so much for the Gaelic movement have been 
transferred to Irish earth. 

[51] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Ah, no — he is unforgotten, 

His worth shall never depart, 
The sound of his name awakes to flame 

The love of the Irish heart. 
But lonely there, though the place be fair, 

In that grave in the West he seems — 
He would love the best to be laid at rest 

In the old Green Isle of his dreams! 

From his tomb by the far Pacific 

Let us tenderly bear him back, 
O'er leagues of land from the foreign strand. 

O'er the perilous ocean's track; 
Let us bring him o'er from a distant shore 

To the place where his people dwell, 
Let us lay him deep for his last long sleep 

In the land that he loved so well! 



[52] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Robin with the Rosy Breast 

"D OBIN with the rosy breast — 
-■"^ I can hear you when the morn 
Gilds the sky from east to west 

With the gold of day new-born; 
I can hear your liquid note, 

Like a fountain falling fair — 
Robin with the ruby throat, 

And the manner debonair! 

Robin with the rosy breast — 

When you came this way last year. 
Came to mate and came to nest, 

One who loved you well was here; 
All things sweet the world possessed 

In his kindly heart had room. 
You he loved among the rest, 

Robin like a rose in bloom! 

Robin with the breast of flame — 
Golden-sweet your song may be, 

But 't will never be the same, 
Nevermore the same to me; 

[S3] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Sunlight falls on wood and wave, 
Summer reigns from east to west 

But you're singing o'er his grave, 
Robin with the rosy breast! 



[54] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Hills o' Carrickbeg 

'TpHE hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, I 'm dreamin' of 
"^ 'em yet, 
An' many a time with tears for 'em, me poor ould 

cheeks are wet, 
Me poor ould cheeks are wet, a gradh, me heart is 

sick an' sore 
With longing for the Irish hills I'll ne'er be seein' 

more. 

The hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, 't is I that know 

'em well, 
'T is often I could see 'em and I walkin' to Clonmel, 
I walkin' to Clonmel, a gradh, from Carrick down 

below, 
The sight of 'em would cheer me every step I had 

to go. 

The hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, are green as green 

could be. 
No hills in all America are half so green to me, 
No hills in all America me longin' e'er could cure 
To see the hills o' Carrickbeg that rise bey and the 

Suir! 

[55] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

I love the hills o' Carrickbeg, I love each blade o' 

grass, 
O'er which I used to ramble on a Sunday afther 

Mass, 
Ah, Sunday afther Mass, a gradh, young heart an' 

lively leg, 
I roamed with friends an' neighbors o'er the hills o' 

Carrickbeg! 

'T is often as a boy, when I remembered Ireland's 

wrong. 
Or when the heart within me thrilled at some old 

Irish song. 
In fancy I could hear the noise o' battle rise an' 

swell. 
An' see the foemen flyin' from the hills I loved so 

well! 

The hills o' Carrickbeg, a gradh, I never more shall 
see. 

Until I die they'll only be a memory to me — 

Ah, many the place in dreams I trace from Coolna- 
muck to Cregg, 

But first and best of all the rest, the hills o' Car- 
rickbeg! 



[56] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



In the Fields o' BalHnderry 

"D ALLINDERRY, Ballinderry, in the opening of 

•^~^ the spring — 

Sure, 't was there myself was merry, sure 't was 

there myself could sing, 
Sure, 't was there my heart was happy (for the world 

I did n't know) 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 

Ballinderry, Ballinderry, when the summer time 

came on — 
How we blessed the cooling breezes from the slopes 

o' Slieve-na-mon ! 
How the singing river wooed us to its waters far 

below — 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 

Ballinderry, Ballinderry, when the corn-crake had 

called. 
When the reaper's work was ended and the harvest 

home was hauled, 

[57] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

On the last load riding gayly laughed the children in 

a row! 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 

Ballinderry, Ballinderry, in the winter cold and 

white 
Glowed the hearths o' Ballinderry in the darkness 

of the night — 
Sure, the beggar-man from Kerry and the rambler 

from Mayo 
Found a friend in Ballinderry, Ballinderry^, long ago! 

Ballinderry, Ballinderry, what a change there is 

to-day, 
Though the place is there as ever, ah, the faces — 

where are they? 
Gone the merry-hearted maidens, gone the boys I 

used to know 
In the fields o' Ballinderry, Ballinderry, long ago! 



[58 



AND OTHER POEMS 



O Little Lamp 

f\ LITTLE lamp that glows before the shrine 
^^ Of Christ the Lord, here in the chapel dim, 
I would the tireless constancy were mine 
Wherewith your radiance serves and honors Him! 

O little lamp! your steadfast worship shames 
My hours of deep discouragement and doubt, 

When fitfully with love my heart up-flames, 
And then in dark forgetf ulness goes out. 



[59] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



Songs at Christmas 

I. — The Star of Bethlehem 

^XT'HEN Jesus Christ, a little child, 

In Bethlehem was born, 
There shone a star across the wild 

More glorious than the morn. 
It glowed and gleamed, it blazed and beamed 

Above the lonely hill — 
Ah, blessed star of Bethlehem, 

It lights the nations still! 

II. — The Vision of Mary 

Lo, the Infant holy 
In the manger lies. 

See, the shepherds lowly, 
Gaze with rev'rent eyes. 

Mark the Mother Mary — 
Say, ah, can she see 

Him, her God, her baby. 
Nailed upon the tree? 

[60] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



III. — St. Joseph's Vigil 

Silently, with clasped hands, 
By the manger Joseph stands, 
O'er the Infant in the straw 
Watching with a holy awe. 
Guardian of the Mother mild, 
Guardian of the holy Child; 
Artisan to whom is given 
Knowledge of the things of Heaven; 
Lowly one who knows and sees 
God's eternal m_ysteries! 



IV. — When Christ was Born 

When Christ, a httle Babe, was born 

In Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, 
When Christ, a little Babe, was born. 

Oh, years and years ago! 
With voices sweet, the angels came 

To Bethlehem, to Bethlehem, 
And sang the Infant Jesus' name, 

Oh, years and years ago! 
With hasty steps the shepherds went 

To Bethlehem, to Bethlehem! 
[6i] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

And low before their Saviour bent, 

Oh, years and years ago! 
Ah, would I had been there to see. 

In Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, 
The Babe upon His Mother's knee, 

Oh, years and years ago! 
And would I had been there to hold. 

In Bethlehem, in Bethlehem, 
My cloak between Him and the cold 

Oh, years and years ago! 



[62] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Road to Bethlehem 

" There was no room for them in the inn." 

A LONG this road one evening long ago 

Two weary travellers came to Bethlehem, 
And sought for shelter at the inns; but, lo! 
In all the inns there was no room for them. 

From door to door went Joseph, grave and kind — 
From door to door he went in Bethlehem; 

No place to shelter Mary could he find, 

Beneath no roof-tree there was room for them. 

And so, with one mysterious Star o'erhead, 
They came unto a hillside bleak and wild. 

And there among the kine, beneath a shed. 
The Holy Mother bore the Holy Child. 

O foolish folk, what blindness held your sight? 

heedless folk of olden Bethlehem! 

Could ye but know who sought a place that night, 

1 ween ye had found room enough for them! 

[63] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

O Christian men, O Christian maids and wives! 

How can ye blame the folk of Bethlehem, 
If God's Elect are strangers in your lives, 

If in your hearts you have no room for them! 



[64] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Under the Rose 

W. H., September 25, 1902. 

UNDER the rose he lay last night, 
Under the lily and rose. 
Red was the rose and the lily was white, 
Gleamed over all the tapers' light, 
But he, who loved the scent and the sight 

Of every flower that grows. 
Lay still and cold in the silent night 

Wrapped in serene repose. 
Still and cold he lay in the night — 

Under the rose! 

Like to the lily his soul was pure. 

But his heart — his heart was a rose! 
Little he cared for the worldly lure. 
His hope was set in a Hope secure. 
In faith and hope was his footstep sure. 

In the sight of the God Who knows; 
With us, will his name and fame endure, 

While the heart of a lover glows. 
As lover and friend will his name endure. 

For his heart was a rose! 

[65] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Under the rose, O let him He, 

Under the lily and rose! — 
A grave out under the open sky, 
In the boyhood home where he longed to lie 
Where winds of the west will softly sigh, 

And flowers of the west unclose; 
Far from the clamor and far from the cry 

Of the world, its ways, and its woes; 
Peace to his soul, and let him lie 

Under the rose! 



[66] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Irish on Parade 

npHE sun is shining brightly, 
'"' The wind is brisk and keen, 
The flaunting colors lightly 

Are tossing o'er the scene; 
With bugles gayly blowing 

And flag of green displayed — 
The street is filled with marching men, 

The Irish on parade! 

They come with chargers prancing, 

With lilting fife and drum, 
They come with sabres glancing; 

With dancing plumes they come; 
They wear the verdant vesture 

That covers hill and glade. 
The color of und3dng hope — 

The Irish on parade! 

Between the cheering masses. 

Their bay'nets all a-shine. 
The Irish regiment passes. 

Ten hundred men in line, 

[67] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

The flags that float above them 

Are battle-rent and frayed, 
The "Sunburst" with the ''Stars and Stripes "- 

The Irish on parade! 

As breaks a gleam of glory 

O'er sullen skies and dun, 
A bright though transitory 

Reminder of the sun, 
So breaks across the dreary 

Routine of toil and trade 
The life and light and music of 

The Irish on parade! 

But has this gathering yearly 

No meaning save to be 
A passing pageant merely 

For curious eyes to see? 
Are Ireland's wrongs forgotten? 

Are Ireland's sons dismayed? 
And do they mean no more than this — 

The Irish on parade! 

Ah, no, — by all the glories 

Of Ireland's ancient fame, 
By all the tragic stories 

That cluster 'round her name, 
[68] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

It is no idle seeming 

That finds them thus arrayed, 
They'll do and dare for Ireland yet, 

The Irish on parade! 



[69] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Roses from the Garden 

'T'HE roses from the garden fling 
Their fragrance on the air — 
They mind me of the way you bring 
Your sweetness everywhere! 

Within the heart of each they fold 

A drop of radiant dew, 
As in my heart of heart I hold 

The tender thought of you! 



[70] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



On That Day 

\TI7HEN thy chiefs all danger daring 

Forth to battle went for thee, 
When they raised their standards, swearing 

They would die or set thee free. 
When for thee, their heart's desire-land, 

They went forward to the fray, 
Ah, 't was good to be in Ireland 
On that day! 

When thy sons their feuds foregoing 

Once again united stand, 
Side by side like brothers showing 

How they prize their native land; 
When the love for thee, their sireland, 

Burns all lesser love away — 
Ah, my soul, to be in Ireland 
On that day! 



[71] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Way of the World 

'T'HIS world is a weary old workshop at best, 

And the work must go on, 
Day in and day out, without respite or rest, 

Still the work must go on; 
However the smile of the morn may invite 
The soul to a day and a dream of delight. 
We must turn from the lure, we must face to the 
right, 
For the work must go on. 

Yes, the work must go on, and the hammers 

must swing. 
And a task to be done confronts peasant and 

king; 
And the dreamer must stifle the song he would 

sing, 
For the work must go on. 

The heart may be heavy, the hand may be worn. 

But the work must go on; 
The spirit within may be tortured and torn, 

But the work must go on. 

[72] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Though morning may plunge us the deeper in dole, 
Though evening bring nothing to soothe or console, 
We are yoked to a force that we may not control, 
And the work must go on. 

Yes, the work must go on, and the wheels must 

go round 
And the hammers must swing and the anvils 

must sound, 
And new words must be spoken, new thoughts 

must be found, 
For the work must go on. 

A worker outwearied falls down at the loom, 

But the work must go on; 
The toiler that falls for another makes room, 

And the work must go on; 
Another steps into the place and the pay 
To forward the task howsoever he may. 
And the worker who dies is forgot in a day, 

But the work must go on. 

Yes, the work must go on, and the dullest must 

learn 
That the life of a man is of minor concern, 
'T is our fate to fall out one by one in our turn, 
But the work must go on. 

[73] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



In Bygone Days — And Now 

r 

TN bygone days your gallant sons 

■^ Were not content to sigh for you, 

They faced the gallows and the guns 

Full fearlessly to die for you; 
They did their best as they knew how, 

Nor feared their lives to give for you — 
We have a duty here and now, 
Dear land, and that's to live for you! 
To live for you. 
To live for you. 
Our every thought to give for you, 
Not ours to die — 
But ours to try. 
Dear native land, to live for you. 

In bygone days your sons of toil 

Were not content with words for you. 

They seized their ploughshares from the soil 
And beat them into swords for you. 

[74] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

This duty plain before them set, 

Their heart's best blood to give for you. 
Their names will never fade — and yet 
Our duty is to live for you. 
To live for you, 
To live for you. 
Our word and work to give for you, 
Not ours to die — 
But ours to try, 
Dear native land, to live for you. 

In bygone days your sons would scorn 

The men that meant no deed for you. 
The boasters (would they were unborn!) 

Of burning zeal to bleed for you. 
These braggart warriors of the tongue 

With empty words to give for you — 
They find no foremost place among 
The men resolved to live for you! 
To live for you, 
To live for you. 
Resolved their best to give for you, 
'T is men sincere 
Can lead us here. 
Dear native land, to live for you! 



[75] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Fellow who Fights Alone 

npHE fellow who fights the fight alone, 

With never a w^ord of cheer, 
With never a friend his help to lend, 

With never a comrade near, 
'T is he has need of a stalwart hand 

And a heart not given to moan. 
He struggles for fife and more than life — 

The fellow who fights alone! 

The fellow who fights the fight alone, 

With never a father's smile. 
With never a mother's kindly tone 

His sorrowful hours to guile. 
Who joins the fray at the dawn of day, 

And battles till light is flown. 
Must needs be strong, for the fight is long* 

The fellow who fights alone! 

Ah, bitter enough the combat is, 

With every help at hand. 
With friends at need to bid God-speed, 

With spirits that understand, 

[76] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

But fiercer far is the fight to one 
Who struggles along unknown — 

Ah, brave and grim is the heart of him, 
The fellow who fights alone! 

God bless the fellow who fights alone, 

And arm his soul with strength, 
Till safely out of the battle rout 

He conquering comes at length, 
Till far and near into every ear 

The fame of his fight is blown. 
Till friend and foe in the victor know 

The fellow who fights alone! 



[771 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Victor's Wreath 

\ FTER long years of wearisome endeavor, 
"^^ Trouble and toil that seemed to last forever, 
That for whose sole attainment he had striven 
Early and late, into his hand was given. 

Only a crown of laurel leaves entwisted — 
Yet he had thought if any joy existed, 
Surely it would be his whose constant passion 
Won for his brows that laurel crown's possession. 

Well, it was his away from all to bear it. 
Fated he was to win it and to wear it. 
Bright was the day that on his forehead bound it 
Ah, but a cruel crown of thorns he found it! 



[78] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



In Fair Bohemia it is Always Spring 

TN fair Bohemia it is always spring, 

"■' Forever there the buds of hope unfold, 

Forever there the birds of promise sing 

Their clearest canticles in wood and wold; 
Forever there the sunset's gorgeous gold 

Foretells the bliss the coming dawns will bring, 
The sweet surprises that the morrows hold — 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring! 

Let others enter in the furious race 

For fading honors, fame and golden store, 
But they who dwell in that enchanted place 

Know not the curse of much demanding more; 
A land it is of natures frank and true, 

A land of friendly hands that clasp and cling, 
A land of visions old yet ever new — 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring! 

In fair Bohemia it is always spring, 

'T is always time to sow, and hope, and dream, 
The swallow there is ever on the wing, 

And early flowers bloom by every stream. 

[79] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

No thought is there of coming blight or cold, 
No cruel sun to scorch or ^ind to sting, 

No fear of fading or of growing old — 
In fair Bohemia it is always spring! 



[80] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



When the World was Youthful Yet 

CAID my heart to me in youth: ''Let us go and 

^ leave behind 

All the tyranny that trammels us in body and in 

mind; 
Here in Ireland there is nothing to be ventured for 

or done, 
But across the broad Atlantic there are fortunes to 

be won." 
So the prompting I obeyed and an exile I became, 
I have found but little fortune, I have found but 

little fame, 
And the dreams I dreamed in boyhood they are far 

from coming true. 
Yet they say I should be happy in the work I have 

to do — 

Ah, but the stress of the hurry and the worry! 
Ah, but the never-ending fever and the fret! 
Ah, but the thought of those days in Ballinderry 
When the heart within w^as merry, and the world 
was youthful yet ! 

[8i] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Said my heart to me in youth: "Let us rise and fly 

afar, 
There is nothing to be hoped for in the country where 

we are; 
Ev'ry day the opportunities of Hfe are growing less, 
And the poor are barred forever from the pathway 

to success." 
So the prompting I obeyed, and like others of my 

race, 
In the new land I have struggled for a name and for 

a place; 
And perhaps I have achieved them and perhaps I 

have n't yet. 
But a man can't always harp upon remembrance and 

regret — 

Ah, but the stress of the hurry and the worry! 
Ah, but the never-ending fever and the fret! 
Ah, but the dreams of those days in Ballinderry 
When the heart within was merry, and the world 
was youthful yet! 

Said my heart to me in youth: "There are fair lands 

far away 
Where an honest man may labor on in peace from 

day to day, 

[82] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Fairer even than the valleys that we see from Slieve- 

na-mon, 
And they wait for hands to claim them; let us 

hasten and begone!" 
So the prompting I obeyed and an exile I became, 
And if fortune has n't blessed me I have but myself 

to blame, 
For the friends within the new land are as true as 

those of old 
And I 've found within the new land something 

dearer far than gold — 

Ah, but the stress of the hurry and the worry! 
Ah, but the never-ending fever and the fret! 
Ah, but the thought of those days in Ballinderry 
When the heart within was merry, and the world 
was youthful yet! 



[83] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Memory of May 

'T'HERE are memories that linger howsoever men 

may change, 
Howsoever Fortune lures us into places new and 

strange; 
Howsoever on our hearts the hand of sorrow may be 

laid, 
There are bright and blessed pictures of the past that 

never fade. 
Many a happy dream of boyhood in remembrance 

still remains, 
Many a picture of the past my saddened spirit still 

retains. 
But the sweetest, best reminder of the days I used 

to know 
Is the memory of May- time in old Ireland long ago! 

Ah, the memory of May- time! Ah, the skies so 

sweetly blue ! 
Ah, the scented apple-blossoms in the orchard, wet 

with dew! 

[84] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Ah, the race upon the river and the hunt upon the 

hill! 
A.h, the vagrant-hearted laddie vainly striving to be 

still! 
Ah, the call so clear, so luring of the cuckoo in the 

glen! 
Ah, to follow him, the herald of the summer-time, 

again ! 
Ah, to leave the years behind us with the burdens 

that we know. 
For our youth and all its sweetness in the May-time 

long ago! 



Let the city's trade and traffic roll before me as it 
will, 

I can see the hawthorn shake its snow-white blos- 
soms on the rill! 

Let the city's noise and bustle roar around me as 
it may, 

I can hear a linnet singing in a woodland far away! 

Let the city's smoke enshroud me, I can pierce its 
deepest gloom, 

I can see a mountain purpled with the heather all in 
bloom, 

[85] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

I can see the children hieing to a place where flowers 

grow — 
Ah, those flowers for Mary's altar in the May-time 

long ago! 



[86] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



A Song of Duty 

OORROW comes and sorrow goes, 

^ Life is flecked with shine and shower, 

Now the tear of grieving flows, 

Now we smile in happy hour; 
Death awaits us every one. 

Toiler, dreamer, preacher, writer, 
Let us, then, ere life be done, 

Make the world a little brighter. 

Burdens that our neighbors bear. 

Easier let us try to make them. 
Chains, perhaps, our neighbors wear, 

Let us do our best to break them; 
From the straitened hand and mind 

Let us loose the binding fetter, 
Let us, as the Lord designed. 

Make the world a little better. 

Selfish brooding sears the soul, 

Fills the mind with clouds of sorrow. 

Darkens all the shining goal 
Of the sun-illumined morrow. 

[87] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Wherefore should our lives be spent 
Daily growing blind and blinder — 

Let us, as the Master meant, 
Make the world a little kinder! 



[88] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Love's Content 

XTtZHAT do I care if day by day 

^ Down pours the rain from sullen skies; 
No cloud can hide from me away 

The sunshine of your eyes; 
And while I find my sunshine there 

What do I care? 

O, let the skies be gray or blue, 

O, let the seasons rain or shine, 
So long as I am dear to you, 

So long as you are mine. 
If days be foul or days be fair, 

What do I care? 



[89] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



A Winsome Wife and Baby 

rJOWEVER dark the day be, 
However filled with woe, 
A winsome wife and baby, 

With love can make it glow. 
However grim and gray be 

The sullen skies above, 
A winsome wife and baby 

Can light them with their love! 

However sad we may be. 

However cares annoy, 
A winsome wife and baby 

Our grief can change to joy. 
However long the way be 

O'er which we have to roam, 
A winsome wife and baby 

Can make a heav'n of home! 



[90] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



When Falls the Curtain 

WHEN falls the curtain, he who plays the clown 
And he the king are on a common level, 
The villain with the virtuous one sits down, 

The angel smiles on him who played the devil. 
The peasant fraternizes with the peer, 

And village maids, and courtly dames and queens 
Mingle together without fear or sneer — 
They 're only players all, behind the scenes! 

When falls the curtain on the play of Life — 

This play designed to entertain the gods — 
The parts assigned us in its mimic strife 

(Though now we think so) will not make much 
odds. 
Who plays on earth the king will be as mean 

As any thrall that wearied him with prayers — 
Peasant and peer and country girl and queen, 

Behind the scenes, will all be only players! 



[91] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Real Presence 

'T^HE candles on the altar flame. 

They gleam through aisles and arches dim 
O human heart, for shame, for shame, 
That will not glow for Him! 

The clouds of incense upward pour, 
The Host is hid within the haze, — 

O human heart, that will not soar 
To Him in prayer and praise! 

The bell sends forth its silvery peal, 

Its ling'ring echoes softly ring, — 
O human heart, can you not feel 

The presence of the King? 

Can you not feel in every part 

His heavenly benediction poured? 
For shame, for shame, O human heart! 

This, this is Christ the Lord! 



[92] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Shining Suir 

/^N the mighty Mississippi I have gazed in silent 
^^^ wonder, 

I have seen the broad Missouri's tawny tide, 
I have heard Niag'ra's torrent fall in tumult and in 
thunder, 
I have seen the lordly Hudson rolling wide; 
I have marked the Mersey flowing, I have seen the 
Thames out-going 
Where the thronging life of busy England teems — 
But my heart will never sever 
From my own beloved river — 
Ah, the shining Suir is ever 
In my dreams! 

Years and years ago I left behind the olden, Golden 
Valley 
Where the shining Suir in beauty flows along, 
Where it winds and winds and wanders round the 
fair green isles of sally. 
Where it croons and croons the magic of a song. 
And since then in valleys tender and in scenes of 
rugged splendor, 

[93] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

I have gazed my fill on fair enchanting streams — 
But my heart will never sever 
From my own beloved river — 
And the shining Suir is ever 
In my dreams! 

Very dear unto my heart is every stream that curves 
and quivers, 
Wheresoe'er on God's green earth its waters run, 
There is something sweet and soothing in the flowing 
of the rivers, 
And my love is wide enough for every one. 
I delight to sit and ponder where the rippling wave- 
lets wander, 
'Neath the sunlight or the moon's enchanted beams — 
But my heart will never sever 
From my own beloved river — 
Ah, the shining Suir is ever 
In my dreams! 



[94] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Dearest Thing in Erin 

'T'HE dearest thing in Erin, the dearest thing to 
•*• me — 

It is n't field or streamlet, it is n't vale or lea, 
It is n't lake of beauty or river running free. 
But a green grave in Erin is the dearest thing to me! 

Ah, there are fields in Erin wherein I 'd like to roam. 
And hills whereon I 'd like to stand and breathe the 

air of home, 
And woods wherein I 'd like to lie beneath some 

hoary tree — 
But a green grave in Erin is the dearest thing to me! 

Ah, dear is every foot of the blessed Irish earth. 
But dearest is the place she lies — the one who gave 

me birth. 
Who died before my heart had learned how lonely 

life could be — 
Ah, her green grave in Erin is the dearest thing to 

me! 

[95] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



To One who "Never Doubted Clouds 
would Break" 

T CARE not, I care not what sorrows may grieve 
"*■ me, 

I care not, I care not how Fate may bereave me, 
If thou wilt but love me, if thou wilt not leave me, 
I care not who else may desert and deceive me! 

I care not, I care not what lot may betide me. 
If safe in thy heart I may harbor and hide me. 
If all through the years I may find thee beside me, 
I care not who else may despise and deride me! 



[96] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Carrick Castle' 

I STOOD in Carrick Castle — it is many a century 
old, 
Its halls are dim and dusty now, its hearths are dead 

and cold; 
And ruinous the courtyard lies and roofless is the 

keep, 
And tower and wall are covered all with ivy dark 

and deep. 
And as I gazed on all that now recalls its olden pride, 
A swallow thro' the casement flew and flitted far 

and wide, 

1 The Castle of Carrick-on-Suir (pronounced Shure), county 
Tipperary, Ireland, is said to be one of the finest specimens of 
feudal architecture in that country. Originally erected in the 
fourteenth century, it was considerably extended by Black 
Thomas Butler, tenth earl of Ormond, in the sixteenth. In 
the banqueting hall are medallions in fresco of Black Thomas 
and Queen Elizabeth. 

Among the many interesting things in connection with this 
castle is the popular tradition that Anne Boleyn, the second 
wife of Henry VIII, was born here. 

[97] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

And looking forth I saw the Suir in curving beauty 

flow, 
As Walter's ^ eye beheld it run six hundred years ago. 

I stood in Carrick Castle, and I thought on days 

gone by, 
When first its foreign walls arose beneath the Irish 

sky; 
When knights and dames and courtly clerks within 

its chambers dwelt, 
From out its pointed windows peered, or in its chapel 

knelt; 
When round the board, while chimneys roared, the 

men-at-arms would sit 
And list to some old tale of war, of witchery or wit; 

1 The founder of the Butler family in Ireland was Theobald 
Walter (Gualtier), an Anglo-Norman of high rank who re- 
ceived extensive grants of land from Henry II, together with 
the hereditary office of "pincerna," or butler to the kings of 
England. In this capacity he and his successors were to at- 
tend those monarchs at their coronations and present them 
with the first cup of wine. In return they obtained many privi- 
leges. The Ormonds (the Butlers were created earls of Or- 
mond, or upper Munster, in the fourteenth century) figure 
largely in the history of Ireland for several hundred years. 
Through the varying fortunes of the old land (change of rulers, 
and other vicissitudes), they always managed to be on the win- 
ning side, and they thus preserved their titles and estates. A 
great part of these estates has nov/ passed into the hands of the 
farmers through the operation of the land purchase act. 

[98] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Or when in bower at even hour the castle beauties 

hung 
Entranced upon the magic of a roaming rhymer's 

tongue. 

I stood in Carrick Castle — and on other days I 

mused. 
I thought on princely privilege and princely power 

abused; 
For many a belted Butler here, as conquering knight 

and lord, 
Against the clans of Munster kept, for England, 

watch and ward. 
And many a time for many a year these rooms now 

'reft of life 
Resounded with the startling clang of furious border 

strife. 
And round these walls full often surged, again and 

yet again. 
The vengeful war-wave of the Gael, the raid of land- 
less men! 

I stood in Carrick Castle while the sun was on the 

stream. 
And Ireland's bitter story passed before me like a 

dream — 

[99] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

And all her sufferings, all the wrongs by feudal forces 

wrought, 
And oh, the long-enduring fight her faithful people 

fought! 
And thus I cried as forth I gazed where now for 

many a mile. 
The homes of happy husbandmen look up to heaven 

and smile: 
"Oh, ruined keep! I may not weep your darkness 

and decay, 
Your hour is fled, your power is dead — the people 

rule, to-day!" 



[ loo] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Grass-Grown Graves 

(May 30.) 
T>LOW the bugle softly, boy, blow the bugle 
■*-^ slowly. 

Let its note faintly float where the banner waves. 
Let it sound o'er the ground like a blessing holy, 

Breathing o'er the grass-grown graves! 

Blow the bugle gayly, boy, blow the bugle loudly, 
Let it rise to the skies where the banner waves. 

Let it thrill heart and will gallantly and proudly, 
Singing o'er the grass-grown graves! 

Blow the bugle proudly, boy, though our tears are 
falling, 
Though we weep those that sleep where the 
banner waves, 
Well we know that they go whither Fame is calling 
Far beyond the grass-grown graves! 



[loi] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



Another Blessed Christmas Day 

"VTOW let the holly bough be sought, 

-^^ To deck our hearths and homes with green, 

And let the stately tree be brought 

To lord it o'er the festal scene; 
And let our merriest mood avail 

To chase our grown-up griefs away, 
The while with happy hymns we hail 

Another blessed Christmas Day! 

Oh, let the little ones behold 

The bending branches blaze with light; 
(God grant to them till they be old 

The mem'ry of this sacred night.) 
Let some one speak of Christ the King 

Who lowly in the manger lay. 
And let the children's voices sing 

A song to welcome Christmas Day! 

Oh, happy time! Oh, time of mirth! 

Oh, time when God-forgetting men 
May hear the angels' "Peace on earth" 

Fall softly on their ears again, 

[102] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

When haughty hearts, to faith restored, 
Desert the world's delusive way, 

And find their Saviour and their Lord 
Within the crib on Christmas Day. 

So let us seek the holly bough 

Our hearths and homes to deck with green, 
And let the sombre fir-tree now 

Transfigured in the midst be seen; 
And let our merriest mood prevail 

Against the griefs that make us gray, 
The while our carols blithely hail 

Another blessed Christmas Day. 



[103] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Graduate 

npHE street was his school, and the corner his 
""^ college — 

What wonder he picked up a great deal of knowl- 
edge? 
The faces of women and men were his books — 
What wonder he trusted so little to looks? 
Each person he met was, unknowing, his teacher — 
The pugilist taught him as much as the preacher; 
This outcast in rags and that other in satin. 
Each gave him a lesson more lasting than Latin ! 

The street was his school — ay, its lessons were 

burned 
Deep into his sensitive soul, for he learned 
Some things that the wisest of books do not tell. 
Some secrets that erewhile were whispered in hell! 

In halls academic a boy may omit 
His lessons some day when he's not feeling fit; 
There are periods of rest, there are days of vacation, 
For e'en the most zealous require recreation. 
[104] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Not so with this college — 't is always in session, 
With teachers absorbed in their occult profession, 
And course so alluring that those who Ve begun it 
Have little desire to abridge it or shun it. 



The street was his school; and through sound and 

through sight 
It poured in its lessons by day and by night. 
Its method could scarce be described as elective, 
But then, what of that? It was highly effective. 
It took him an infant, an innocent baby. 
Whose mother had holy desires for him, maybe, 
And, class after class, led him onward, until, 
A beast that is trained but to capture and kill. 
Through lesser achievements he passed till he stood 
Accused at the last of the shedding of blood. 
And then came his college, as proud as could be, 
And gave him, cum laiide, its final degree! 

The street was his school, and the corner his college — 
And shall we blame him for applying the knowledge 
So fully and freely provided him there 
To land him at last in the murderer's chair? 
Ai:e we, who have never attended, as he. 
The street of the school and the corner, are we 
[105] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

So free from reproach for his life gone amiss, 
The light of his innocence darkened like this? 
Are we in no way in his failure involved? 
Are we from all blame for his downfall absolved? 

Ah, never believe it! We all are to blame; 
On all rests a share of his shadow of shame; 
For, lost in pursuit of our gains and our joys, 
We've wandered away from the girls and the boys. 
And though we spend millions of dollars in schools 
And muddle our minds over methods and rules, 
There 's something essential o'erlooked or forgotten. 
Some arch in the structure we 're building is rotten. 
Else, why should we find it so hard to compete 
With those who are running the school of the street? 
And why should we stand in so helpless a way. 
Beholding it capture our best, day by day, 
And draw them away from the things we revere. 
Until, in the end, like this graduate here. 
They come to that seat which our science invented 
For crimes which our schools should, perhaps, have 
prevented? 

The street was his school, and the corner his college — 
What wonder he picked up a great deal of knowledge? 
What wonder he found it so easy to pass 
From grade into grade and from class into class, 
[io6] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Till we find him, his college days ended, as now, 
With his final degree like a brand on his brow? 
He sinned. He must suffer society's wrath. 
But what of the others who follow his path? 
Shall nothing be done for the boys who to-morrow 
A leaf from the life of this outlaw may borrow? 

This, this is the question our minds should revolve; 
This, this is the problem our sages should solve. 
Evaded to-day — lest its trouble annoy us — 
To-morrow 't will face, and affright, and destroy usl 



[107] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



Lincoln 

'nr' IS not in kaisers or in kings 
The hope of man we seek, 
Their glittering sceptres, crowns, and rings 

Are baubles for the weak; 
But we whose feet are firmly set 

On freedom's broad highway. 
We seek man's hope far deeper yet 

Than kingly pomp or sway, 
We seek it in the people's sweat 

And in their blood to-day! 

We seek man's hope — nor seek in vain — 

Where dreamers work and wait, 
Where boys in poverty and pain 

Are growing to be great. 
Where boys Uke Lincoln, poor and plain, 

But strong of hand and heart, 
Grow upward through the sun and rain 

To play a hero-part. 
To cleanse their country from the stain 

Of manhood in the mart! 
[io8] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Oh, let the kaisers and the kings 

At rule and sceptre play, 
Our hope is not in crowns and rings 

And baubles such as they. 
But wheresoever hearts aspire 

To break a Christless ban. 
The name of Lincoln will inspire 

To higher hope and plan. 
Will stir the generous soul's desire 

To live and die for man! 



[109] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



In the Nuns' Garden 

TN the nuns' garden lean the lilies slender, 
In the nuns' garden crimson roses blow, 
And many flowers, old-fashioned, fair, and tender, 
Along the paths in rich profusion grow. 

But sweeter than the roses and the lilies 
That fill with beauty all the gay parterres, 

The virgin flowers whose joyous duty still is 
To waft to God the perfume of their prayers! 

In the nuns' garden, weary of his vagrance. 
Often the w^anderer comes his woes to plead. 

For in that place of purity and fragrance 
Are gentle hearts responsive to his need. 

There mercy dwells amid the crimson roses; 

There no one knocks upon the gate in vain; 
For like the door of Heaven it never closes 

On himian sorrow or on human pain. 

In the nuns' garden lean the lilies slender. 
And many a flower adorns the gay parterres. 

But sweeter far the souls so pure and tender 
Who waft to God the perfume of their prayers! 
[no] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



John Boyle O'Reilly 

Poem read at the commemoration of the twentieth anniver- 
sary of the death of John Boyle O'Reilly. 

/^H, you who have gathered here, twenty years 
^^ after 

The consummate soul of O'Reilly went forth! — 
Oh, you who have silenced your song and your 
laughter 

Due tribute to render his name and his worth! — 
Shall one who was only a boy when he perished, 

Who never a share of his friendship might claim, 
Presume among those whom he honored and 
cherished 

One blossom to add to the wreath of his fame? 

Ah, better be mute; for too noble the theme is. 

Too rare are the gifts that the dead would require, 
And yet so alluring and lovely the dream is, 

That even the coldest of hearts it may fire. 
For though 't was my fate — and full often I 've 
wept it — 

That never his face in the world I should see. 
Each song that he sang in my bosom I kept it. 

And oh, it gave comfort and courage to me! 
[Ill] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

And oft through the years when my youth, un- 
directed, 

Stood facing the choice between virtue and wrong, 
If wisely I chose and more wisely rejected, 

Give praise to the wisdom and grace of his song. 
His song bade me rise over every condition 

That hampered my spirit and hindered her wing, 
And filled all my life with the lofty ambition 

Some message like his to my brothers to bring. 

And so for the debt I forever shall owe him, — 
The strength that he gave me when weary and 
faint — 
I 'm fain to the world, as I knew him, to show him — 

My poet, my master, my hero, my saint! 
Oh, greater is he than my boyhood could dream him, 
And not through poor praisings like mine will he 
live; 
Yet, should there be those who would ask why we 
deem him 
So worthy of honor, this answer I'd give: 

Because he was manly, because he was kindly, 
Because he was helpful in hand and in heart; 

Because you could follow his leadership blindly, 
Assured that from honor he'd never depart; 

[112] 



AND OTHER POEMS 

Because he was dowered with that gift of expres- 
sion 

Before which all grosser possessions give way; 
Because of the power of his songs and their passion, 

We honor the name of O'Reilly to-day! 



Because he was Irish and loved the old nation 

That stands undismayed after centuries' fight; 
(Truth mingles with jest in his own declaration, 

"'T is better be Irish to-night than be right.") 
Who grudges to Erin such exile's devotion? 

No treason he brought from the land of his 
birth; 
Columbia to him was the gem of the ocean, 

Her banner the fairest and dearest on earth. 



Because while he bowed to the cross on the steeple, 

True justice he rendered regardless of creed; 
Because he kept close to the heart of the people. 

And grieved with their grieving and felt for their 
need; 
Because he had courage — the courage that faces 

The menace of privileged classes at bay, 
Because he stood forth for the down-trodden races, 

We honor the name of O'Reilly to-day! 

[113] 



VOICES FROM ERIX 

Ok, yoQ ^liio have gatboed. heze, twenty years after 

(yRdOy the poet bv ^esth ^ras lanovec ! 
Oh, you wh: h^vt _r siLg ir. : : .r 

To h:-:: : 7 ::z::-ir i:- -riiiiap you 

P- -'■"-- 



T 



[114] 



AND OTHER POEiMS 



The Minor Poet 

IIJ E may not wake the mighty chords 

That rouse to fury and to fire, 
He may not voice in wondrous words 

The soul's supreme desire. 
Yet let him sing; his simple lays 

Flow forth so sweetly from his heart 
That fortune's lure and glory's blaze 

Are nought beside his art ! 

Oh, not for him the laurel wreath. 

And not for him the poet's crown; 
But his the fine, free air to breathe. 

Untainted of the town ! 
And his to comfort broken lives 

And spirits over-wrought \\'ith wrong. 
And bring to men and weans and mves 

The solace of a song! 



[115] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 



The Old Story 

"HpO-MORROW," he promised his conscience, 

"'' "to-morrow I mean to be good; 
To-morrow I '11 think as I ought to; to-morrow I '11 

do as I should; 
To-morrow I '11 conquer the habits that hold me 

from heaven away"; 
But ever his conscience repeated one word and one 

only, "TO-DAY." 

To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow — thus day after 

day it went on; 
To-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow — till youth like 

a vision was gone, 
Till age and his passions had written the message of 

fate on his brow, 
And forth from the shadows came Death with the 

pitiless syllable, "NOW." 



[ii6] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Call of the Spring 

\T7HEN May the magician has touched with her 

wand 
The mount and the meadow, the stream and the 

pond, 
Has waved the cold winter winds back to the north 
And called to the grasses and flowers to come forth — 
Then, love of my life, let us hasten away 
From the toils and the troubles that darken our day, 
Let us follow the birds that in ecstasy sing. 
Half crazed with the gladness and madness of 

spring! 

When May the magician with life-giving breath 
Has wakened the world from the slumber of death, 
And over the land like a beautiful spell 
Has woven her magic, and woven it well — 
Then, love of my life, let us forth and forget 
All the cares that annoy, all the worries that fret; 
Let us leave for a season the sorrows that sting. 
And dream by some stream that is bright with the 



spring! 



[117] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Oh, vainly the walls of the city may try 

To shut from our vision the spring-lighted sky! 

And vain the endeavor of mill or of mart 

To silence the call of the spring in the heart — 

Then, love of my Hfe, since 't is Maytime again, 

Let us wander away from the sorrows of men, 

In the woodlands that blossom and bourgeon and 

ring, 
Oh, love, let us live in the sweetness of spring I 



[ii8] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



No Red Flag in America 

A MERICA, to all the v,^orld 

Thou stretchest forth a friendly hand; 
Beneath thy glorious flag unfurled 
No bars to human progress stand. 
The honest mind 
In thee can find 
No chains to hamper or to bind, 
Thou dearest hope of all mankind, 
Thou first and freest land! 



Then what of those who now would flout 

Thy flag that millions died to save 
Since first upon the breeze flung out 
It stirred the spirits of the brave? 
What men are those, 
What fools and foes, 
Would change the flag the fathers chose. 
And in the place where it arose 
A blood-red flag would wave? 
[119] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

No lovers of their kind are they 

Who 'd wreck the work the fathers wrought_ 
Blind leaders of the blind are they 
Who 'd render vain the fight they fought. 
Not love but hate 
Inspires the prate 
That bodes such evil to the State, 
But by the God that rules our fate, 
Their plans shall come to nought! 

Before no flaming flag of red 

Thy spirit, O Columbia, cowers, 
No symbol of disorder dread 

Shall palsy thy benignant powers! 
But over thee, 
From sea to sea, 
Shall float the banner of the free. 
The flag of law and liberty, 
That starry flag of ours! 



[120] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Her Courage 

npHE little woman that runs the house 
Is sore afraid of the smallest mouse. 
She frets all night if she chance to catch 
The faintest squeak or the slightest scratch. 
And oft I 'm summoned at midnight deep 
From yawning chasms of soundest sleep 
And bidden to rise and take the broom, 
To light the gas and to search the room, 
And topsy turvy to turn the house — 
And all because of a tiny mouse! 

Some find it laughable Well, I guess, 
The very limit of foolishness. 
And oft I smile at the timid soul 
That shakes at sight of a mouse's hole. 
And oft in a quite superior way 
I say: ''How silly to thus give way 
To fear because of a mousie small 
That makes a noise in the chamber wall!" 
But she won't argue about a mouse. 
The little woman that runs the house. 

[121] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

But stay — the thing has another phase: 
That little woman with timid ways 
Was not so scared when the horrible breath 
Of pestilence menaced our babe with death; 
When fever's burning blast was rife, 
A- thirst to empty the veins of life; 
When even the bravest failed at the proof 
And safely stood from the fight aloof — 
Did she desert? Did her fears prevail? 
Did the woman heart in her bosom fail? 
Did she wring her hands in a pitiful plight, 
Or fainting fall in a helpless fright? 

Ah, no! Thank God! That delicate frame 
Contains a spirit to put to shame 
The craven souls of the men that fly 
And leave their brothers in Christ to die. 
No traitor she! But she kept her place. 
And grappled the death wolf face to face. 
Till back from the very gates of doom 
She dragged the baby to life and bloom ! 
And yet this woman who runs the house 
Is sore afraid of the smallest mouse! 



[122] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Lost Ones of Erin 

TN bygone years when a ship left Erin, 

From birthland bearing the young and strong, 
The wild winds bore on their winds the wailing 

Of exiles sailing on journeys long. 
Sad, sad were they — and the friends behind them, 

And tears would blind them, howe'er so brave; 
With broken hearts were the tall ships laden 

When youth and maiden then crossed the wave. 

But lo, the change: when a ship from Ireland, 

The same dear Ireland, to-day departs. 
She sails, they say, with a crowd elated. 

She is not freighted with breaking hearts. 
It is with joy now the youth are leaving. 

No hearts are heaving with sob or sigh, 
But oh, their mirth has a sadder meaning 

Than all the keening of years gone by! 

Yea, sadder far, for the land they boast as 
The land they toast as their love, their own, 

That she should see them with glee departing. 
Her shores deserting for lands unknown. 
[123] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

For ne'er again in the olden places 
She '11 see their faces as once they were, 

And so she grieves for them gayly going, 
Her heart well knowing they 're lost to her! 



[124] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Poet's Faith 

'T'O-DAY the world may pass him by 
"^ With heedless haste, averted eye; 

To-day the world may go unstirred 
By all the witch'ry of his word; 

To-day unto himself alone, 

His art melodious may be known; 

But does he murmur? Nay, not he — 
He muses on the days to be, 

Upheld serenely by the faith 

That though he die, there is no death 

For that immortal voice that rings 
Through e'en the lightest song he sings; 

The faith that, though all flesh must fade, 
The beauty which his soul has made 

Will never perish, but live on 

To win the world when he is gone; 

[125] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

The faith that when he 's dead this same 
Old heedless world will breathe his name 

With love and reverence, and keep 
His memory sacred, — ay, and steep 

Its very spirit in the lay 

He sings to deafened ears to-day. 



[126] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



Christmas Legends 

/CHRISTMAS morn, the legends say, 
^^ Even the cattle kneel to pray, 
Even the beasts of wood and field 
Homage to Christ the Saviour yield. 



Horse and cow and woolly sheep 
Wake themselves from their heavy sleep, 
Bending heads and knees to Him, 
Who came to earth in a stable dim. 

Far away in the forest dark 
Creatures timidly wake and hark, 
Feathered bird and furry beast 
Turn their eyes to the mystic east. 

Loud at the dawning, Chanticleer 
Sounds his note, the rest of the year; 
But Christmas Eve the whole night long, 
Honoring Christ he sings his song. 
[127] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Christmas morn, the legends say, 
Even the cattle kneel to pray, 
Even the wildest beast afar 
Knows the light of the Saviour's star^ 

And shall we, for whom He came, 
Be by the cattle put to shame? 
Shall we not do so much at least 
As the patient ox or the forest beast? 

Christmas morn, oh, let us sing 
Honor and praise to Christ the King, 
Sheltered first in a lowly shed. 
And cradled there where the cattle fed. 



[128] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



The Flag Defenders 

At Bell Rock Park, Maiden, Mass., June 17, 1910, a 
striking bronze group of three youthful figures, one bearing 
a flag and the others — a soldier and a sailor — crouched in 
defence of the country's banner, was dedicated with appropri- 
ate ceremonies as a memorial to the soldiers and sailors of the 
Civil War. The following poem, written for the occasion, was 
read at the dedication. 

TT^IXED in the deed of their brave endeavor, 
-■- Guarding the banner that blows above, 
Lo, these generous youths forever 

Offer their lives for the land they love! 
Shrined as it were on their country's altar 

Ever they '11 speak though their lips be dumb, 
Bidding us never to fail or falter, 

Whatsoever a foe may come! 

Here will they speak of the days departed. 

Days with trouble and treason curst. 
Here will they speak of the dauntless-hearted 

Soldier spirits that faced the worst; 
Here will they tell of the light that dimly 

All but sank in engulfing gloom, 
Here will they speak of the men that grimly 

Died to baffle the danger's doom! 
[129] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Praised be the brooding spirit that brought them 

Forth from nothingness into light! 
Praised be the dexterous hand that wrought them 

Ready and steady in freedom's fight! 
Year after year their strength and beauty 

Meeting the eye will make men pause, 
Stirring the heart with the pulse of duty, 

Waking the soul to the country's cause! 

Hither, oh, come for your inspiration. 

Freedom-lovers through all the years! 
Here is a sign of the land's salvation, 

Conquering doubts and calming fears! 
Every frivolous, shameful fashion. 

Worship of wealth or wanton's kiss, 
Fades in the flame of the patriot-passion 

Kindled and kept by deeds like this! 

Fixed in the deed of their brave endeavor. 

Here let the banner-defenders stand. 
Making the citizen's heart forever 

Leap with pride in his chosen land! 
Shrined as it were on their country's altar 

Here let them stand as the years go by. 
Symbol of courage too firm to falter, 

Symbol of love too dear to die! 

[ 130 ] 



AND OTHER POEMS 



A Bit o' the Brogue 

OURE, the very best thing in the world, I should 

say, 
To help a man conquer his cares day by day, 
And baffle the buffets of Fate — the ould rogue! — 

Is a bit o' the brogue. 

Yes, a bit o' the brogue is a wondherful thing; 
It heartens a man at his labor to sing; 
It gives a man courage, it gives a man stringth. 
An' it makes a man masther his troubles at lingth. 
For along with a bit o' the brogue goes the blood 
Of a race that can thrace thimselves back to the 

Flood. 
A race that refused Noah's offer of shelther 
Whin the bastes all flocked into the ark helther- 

skelther. 
So afraid that their national prestige 't would dim, 
Faith, they would n't accept any favors from him. 
They relied on thimselves, and they all kept afloat, 
For every one o' thim had his own boat! 
(This story I have from the lips o' Dan Logue, 
A man very proud of his bit o' the brogue!) 

[131] 



VOICES FROM ERIN 

Oh, the man that is blessed with this powerful charm, 
The divil himself could n't do him much harm; 
For when he 's thrown down with a terrible jounce, 
'T is smiling you '11 see him come up on the bounce. 
For along with the brogue goes the soul of the 

Celt — 
A soul in which sorrow for ages has dwelt. 
And yet where there rises a well-spring of joy 
That makes its possessor forever a boy. 
Unflinching he takes fortune's kicks or caresses. 
But defeat is the last thing on earth he confesses. 
Let business or warfare or love be the vogue — 
Look out for the lad with a bit o' the brogue! 

And that 's why I stop for a moment to say, 
That the very best thing in the world day by day. 
To baffle the buffets of Fate — the ould rogue! — 
Is a bit o' the brogue! 



[132] 



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One copy del. to Cat. Div. 



^N-. 2h I9|y 



